The Elusive Scent of Lilacs
by Angel Blackwood
Summary: Rarity does tend to enhance the value of that which is desired, but withheld. Disclaimer: not mine.


**The Elusive Scent of Lilacs**

Hidalgo J. LaRoya Hospital Memoriale  
Coyote Creek, New Mexico

May 2010

The pale, purple blossoms cluster on curved stalks, their heart-shaped leaves deep green in color. The flowers look conspicuous on the small hospital bedside table, but Scully likes lilacs. She told him that, once, a long time ago.

She is sitting, propped against the pillows. Mulder is beside her, his right arm looped about her shoulders, his left leg braced against the floor, anchoring their position. She is limp against him, tousled head nestled below his chin so that he cannot see her unresponsive face. Her hands lie in her lap and he ensconces one within his own. He caresses the back of it with his thumb, noting tendons and muscles that connect tissue and bone, their purposes laid waste. He regards the skin and its nerve endings and wonders if they still allow sensation. William is standing by the window, watching the traffic move below.

Each day they come, father and son, to spend an hour with the woman that lies unconscious in the bed. The room is softly lit, adorned with a scattering of personal belongings. A photograph of Mulder and Will as a baby, sits in a frame beside the flowers. It will be the first thing she sees when, or if, she awakens.

Outside, it's raining: spring rain, light and cool, life-giving. The freshness of the lilacs fills his senses. They are impossible to obtain in this arid climate, but he has his ways. Odd. He never can recall the scent until he experiences it again, and remembers...

It was spring then, too. Even in Rochester, New York. Not that he didn't like Rochester. He neither liked nor disliked it. Point of fact, he never paid much attention to their surroundings when they were working a case, except if the locale was pertinent somehow. On this particular occasion, it wasn't.

They had tied up the loose ends, dealt with appropriate authority figures and done the local paperwork. And much as he enjoyed working with Scully, he was ready and anxious to get home. Buckling his seat belt, he checked the Taurus' mirrors and prepared to back out of the parking space outside the police precinct.

"I'd like to see the lilacs," Scully announced without warning in a voice serene, but definite.

He turned his head, bemused. "Lilacs?"

"It's May, Mulder, and we're in Rochester." Puzzlement. "Flower City?" More puzzlement. "The lilacs are in bloom at Highland Park. I'd like to go there." He pursed his mouth, irked by her distinct, albeit polite, charge.

As educated and emancipated as he might be, Mulder had to admit, if only to himself, that he rather liked the traditional ways he had observed among the Navajo. The Nation had modernized, but in many ways, the ancient ways prevailed. Gender roles were often distinct, yet the contribution of each individual was respected. The Blessing Way ceremony had given him a new way of viewing the world - one more spiritual than scientific, more connected than discrete. Sure, Scully had her faith and rituals, too; but they never translated into the job. It frustrated him.

And now, she wanted to sight see? Okay. The last four days had been nothing more than grueling work, little sleep and the anticipated "reward" of an overly long flight home. Fine. They should blow off a little steam. Blowing off steam after a case was fine. Reggie and he would often down a few or catch a game when business was concluded. He and Diana... did other things. To date, however, he'd had no such luck on either score with the enigmatic Dr. Scully.

He trusted her more than he ever thought he would, but their partnership was still a bit of a Chinese finger puzzle - the more Scully maintained her separateness, the harder Mulder tried to engage her attention. Well, he thought, maybe her request was a sign that things were changing. Maybe she was warming up to him. But lilacs?

He'd fake a migraine if this turned out to be a Home and Garden show. Actually, he'd have a migraine if this turned out to be a Home and Garden show. With a simple, "Where to?," he allowed himself be directed downtown to a municipal car lot. Scully wouldn't allow them to use their credentials for free parking, but Mulder garnered a small discount from the very stubborn attendant.

They headed north through the heart of the business district. It was ten past noon and reprieved workers flooded the sidewalk in search of a bite to eat, a friend or lover, or just a break from the day's routine. Mulder walked at a fast clip, navigating the crowds with ease. No sense belaboring or prolonging this more than necessary, he thought.

Scully kept pace, close at his elbow. Wind whipped between the skyscrapers, pushing at their backs. "He was well within his jurisdiction to charge us full price, Mulder."

"Even if it means a king's ransom for a 10 by 15 slice of asphalt?"

"Whatever happened to your reputation for integrity?"

His surprise made him stop, which turned into a pivot so that he was walking backwards, his suit jacket rippling behind him, his tie a brightly colored flag against his white shirt. With two hands, he pointed to himself. "I've got a reputation for integrity? Since when?"

"Since always, Mulder." Her tone said, 'stop playing dumb.'

He slowed down, flattered by the unsought compliment. Scully matched stride. "Well, isn't it nice to know that the rumors aren't _all_ about wacko alien hunting, obsessive-compulsive behavior and sexual prowess." He threw that last one in just to get a reaction. All she did was chortle and walk past him, leaving him with his mouth open.

Damn.

The street ended abruptly onto an open intersection. Across the sunlit boulevard, shaded coolness beckoned as the stone-walled perimeter of park split open to allow public access. It was larger than he'd imagined, with one side running the length of Highland Avenue past seeing. Cheap tee-shirt vendors, street artists and ramshackle booksellers punctuated the broad, tree-lined sidewalk. People strolled or roller-bladed past while buses, large and small, parked curbside to better discharge their cargo of tourists and schoolchildren.

As they entered the arboretum proper, a delicate perfume enveloped them. Fostered by the soft rains of April and the lengthening days of May, myriad lilac bushes seemed to be everywhere, bursting to capacity with sprays profound, yearning for sky or hanging heavy towards earth. Their inimitable fragrance filled his senses, sweet and spicy.

All at once, he was reminded of Massachusetts and his boyhood. Lilacs are more common than rare in New England - lining old roads, filling stoneware pitchers on kitchen tables, serving as reminder that baseball was in full swing again. His heart softened at the memories unbound.

Mulder was accustomed to the purple lilac, but here the blossoms grew in an array of white, pink and lavender, deep purple and false blue. The cloudless sky above was true blue and the air felt warm on his face. His senses were attuned to it all. And to Scully. Like a wildflower among more cultivated blooms, her vibrant color stood in sharp contrast to the cooler palette around her. She seemed to delight in the ambiance of the place, walking from one shrub to another, submerging her face into puffy tufts of color to better breathe in their nearly overpowering redolence. Her cheeks were ruddy and when she called him over to look at a particularly beautiful plant, he noted that her eyes matched the sky above.

They wandered idly for an hour before pausing to rest on a wrought iron bench. Mulder purchased lemon ices from a bicycle vendor, so fresh they still had pits. Squirrels cavorted up and down the budding trees and more than a few loving couples were sprawled on blankets in the sunlit meadow enjoying the spell of spring. He found himself wishing he were there among with them, without expenses to justify, without criminals to chase down, without truths to be sought. With Scully. The image was a pleasant one and he loitered there in his mind's eye, allowing himself to be lulled, however brief, by the warmth of the sun, the aroma of the lilacs and the comforting presence of the woman sitting beside him.

"So," he said at last. "Are you going to tell me?

"About?" she responded without looking at him, then wrapping her lips around the cold sour sweetness filling a paper squeezee cup. For a moment he was distracted, but delighted, in watching his staid partner enjoying herself so thoroughly. When her gaze met his, he ably recovered by taking a long slurp of his own tangy delight. "I would have thought you were a rose kind of girl, Scully."

She gave him a small smile, eyes squinting in the sunlight. "Roses are beautiful, romantic, common."

"Common?" Raised eyebrows accompanied his amused surprise.

"Insofar that you can get them at any florist at any time of year - yes."

"Ahhh," he affirmed with a nod. "And lilacs?"

"Only bloom for a few weeks each year and then they're gone. I never saw them in California, but we had them in Maryland. I adored the way they smelled. Missy used to wear lilac perfume, but it wasn't the same." At the mention of her sister, she grew quiet.

"At least," he said, "You have those memories."

"Memories are _all_ we seem to have."

Sentiment resonated in her voice. Once again, he chided himself for his perceived part in her losses and his inability to make them up to her in any real way. When she turned to look him, her eyes were dry, yet he longed to ease the sadness he found there. Reaching out a hand, he touched her arm.

She looked away from him and leaned forward. "Maybe that's why I like lilacs. They remind me of her; of the preciousness of life; of the fleeting nature of every day things; how we should never take anything for granted, but appreciate the moments of beauty in our lives as they occur." She paused, then added in a positive tone, "Like this, today." Her mood was bright again and he wondered how she kept it all in balance.

"Y'know, I thought you were going to drag me to some frou-frou Ladies Only event."

"Heaven forbid." Her mocking tone was accompanied by a small smile.

"Actually, I was picturing little old ladies in purple berets selling corsages, knick-knacks and homemade jam." She cast him a sideways glance. "But, this. This - is - nice." He sat back, setting out to finish the icy treat melting in his hand.

"And all the more special because it doesn't happen every day."

"So," he began in a lazy drawl. "You're saying you'd rather have a singular experience in your life, even if it's infrequent, versus something more readily had, but less - satisfying?"

She leaned back at that and looked at him. In the calm, cool, collected voice he knew so well she said, "Rarity does tend to enhance the value of that which is desired, but withheld."

His internal radar blipped. He might be the master of double-entendre, but Scully was the master, or mistress, of the nonchalant but not-so-innocent statement. His competitive nature and his hormones were piqued. If philosophical banter was what the lady wanted, banter was what she'd get. "Withheld?" he queried in a low voice.

"Unavailable."

"Always?" he persisted, as a point of logic clarification.

"For now," she answered.

Whoa. That was not the answer he was expecting. Was this Dana Scully flirting? With him? Adrenaline filtered through his system, infusing him with libidinous warmth. Maybe it was the time of year, or the sweetness in the air, or the way Scully's mouth made love to a bit of sugar and ice; but Mulder found himself contemplating very indecorous thoughts about his very pretty partner.

"In other words," he said with slow deliberation, "Delayed gratification has its advantages."

"Uh-huh," she cooed before leaning in. He went still. Her eyes held his and he found it difficult to breathe. She cocked her head and glanced down at his mouth, which had parted slightly. He leaned in a tiny bit... then felt something dabbing at his lower lip. Reaching up, he found a paper serviette being tucked into it.

"Except with things that melt," she stated, then pulled away. She pitched her empty cup into the mesh basket beside the bench then leaned forward, gripping the rounded edge. "Don't you think?"

Mulder didn't know what to think after that. However, with a coolness that belied itself, he leaned sideways and murmured into her ear, "Melting has its own rewards." Then he stood, adding his trash to hers. Confident she would follow, he started back down the path towards the car, content for the moment that whatever was emerging between Scully and himself, it would happen on its own timetable. Well, he could wait. He was very good at waiting.

Too good at waiting... waiting... waiting...

Full consciousness informs reverie with the soft but insistent beep of his wristwatch. Half-closed eyes pry open and he finds his face nuzzled into the top of Scully's head. The arm supporting her has gone numb, but he doesn't move. For a few precious seconds he can pretend that she is as she was: strong, independent, loving. His eyes moisten but he has no tears left to give.

Soon, they'll leave. Will needs dinner and homework time. Mulder eases down the gaunt body in his arms against the pillows. He smoothes her hair, red intermingled with streaks of gray, now grown past her shoulders. He straightens the bedclothes. Pressing his lips softly against hers he whispers, "I love you."

Standing up, he inhales through his mouth and exhales with some force as he composes himself. He looks over to the boy who has turned towards him. "Come say good night to your mother, Will."

Once again, he is struck by the contradictory features of his son's appearance. William is tall and wiry, thinner than the other boys his age, with skin baked brown by the desert sun. The carrot top curls he possessed as a toddler have gone brown, but his eyes still reveal his connection to the sleeping figure. They are clear and blue and too somber for a nine-year-old. Saying nothing, he moves to stand on the opposite side of the bed.

Leaning over the unconscious form, he murmurs, "G'night, Mom," before kissing her cheek with a sweetness only a boy can offer. Scully's auburn lashes are still against pale skin. He straightens and studies the steady rise and fall of the soft blanket covering her, then lifts his eyes to the machines and monitors that engulf the head of the bed.

Mulder watches them both. He observes his son's face, overwritten with compassion, anger and fear. There isn't much he can do to help but listen whenever Will feels like talking. He observes his wife's face, too - so reposed, so serene, so death-like. A shudder grips him with an involuntary start.

"Dad?" Will's attention has shifted to him. He hears the worry in his voice.

"S'ok." It isn't true, but it suffices.

They move to the doorway together, the tall man's arm encircling the boy's shoulders. Will leans his head against his father's side as they pause at the entry and turn back once last time. Mulder considers the tubes and wires overshadowing the figure on the bed that has already begun to pull itself into a fetal position. Five years have come and gone since that fateful day so long ago when Life as they knew it again changed forever...

After all that they had seen and done, it wasn't alien invasion that took her from him or a quest for some hollow personal cause. Soon after their narrow escape from Mount Weather, they resolved to recover William. Once again, it was the Navajo that assisted them.

With no more than an impassioned note to the Van de Kamps, begging understanding and compassion, they recovered Will by stealth. Their refuge was a remote pueblo with the family of Albert Hosteen. There, they resigned themselves to a life cut off from the world as they knew it, living in obscurity, sheltered by The People. They were both protected witnesses and fugitives, an ironic twist of fate befitting the winding path their life together had known from the start.

It didn't matter to Mulder in the least. He knew how local law enforcement and the Bureau operated. They stayed well below the official sensors and far beyond their reach. What mattered was that they were together - a family, at last. He would raise his child, love his wife and honor his protectors for as long as he was able. Even the haunting knowledge of the final invasion date could not deter him. They would deal with whatever came along. They always had.

For a time, they knew something of happiness. But Destiny is a sedulous tracker and, without warning, Scully was robbed of sentience by a stray bullet fired in the course of a brash food co-op robbery. The shooter was apprehended and sent to jail for his crimes, but his physical detention was nothing compared to the prison Scully endures, banished to a shadowed land of... what?

Unable to reveal their true identities, Mulder's precautions in protecting their cover made timely and adequate medical assistance a dangerous luxury. Scully was placed on life support in a rural New Mexico hospital without expectation for recovery.

The sum total of the Mulder Family assets, converted to bearer bonds, had been well-managed under the guidance of John Byers. Money remained accessible through an anonymous trustee of the estate of one Emily Luder, an aspect of Frohike's concealment plan. Langley procured the necessary documentation for the lives of Mr. and Mrs. George Hale, just in case. It was a complex fail-safe plan devised after Mulder's resurrection and one they hoped would never be put into practice.

The Weather Mountain trial changed everything. From beyond the grave, it was the Gunmen's friendship and foresight that enabled Mulder and Scully to "disappear." And it was the Gunmen's shrewd planning that allowed Mulder to secure a measure of decent care for Scully without significant risk of exposure or capture. His gratitude would forever be theirs, but it was a Phyrric victory, at best.

Scully's heart continues to beat with a strength the doctors never counted on. Her brain activity is flat, except for inexplicable Alpha rhythms that spike at regular intervals, but which the doctors cannot begin to explain. She isn't dead, but she's hardly living. And so, five years have passed. Five seasons of lilacs. A hundred readings of Breakfast at Tiffany's. A thousand kisses on her brow...

"Mr. Hale?" Mulder shifts his gaze at the sound of his alias to meet the wise eyes of Scully's doctor. The man's broad shoulders fill a rumpled lab coat, a stethoscope slung around his neck. He is a bear of a man, but with a handsome, kindly countenance that reflects his Hopi heritage.

"Hey, Doc." Mulder turns to his son. "Say 'hello' to Dr. Naanji, Will."

"Hullo," the boy murmurs, leaning closer into his dad.

The doctor smiles, but gravity lingers in his dark eyes. "I have the latest scan results."

"No change," Mulder pronounces, saving the man the sad task of sharing unhappy news. Naanji nods.

"Dad?"

"Okay, son. We're going," he says without moving.

"Your wife is lucky to have two people who love her so much," the doctor continues.

"For all the good it does her." His tone is harsher than he intends, but he aches within and anger makes him stronger.

Naanji is non-judgmental. "I like to think she knows when you and your son are here."

"I wonder, sometimes." He looks at the slumbering figure, anger awash in a wave of fatigue and disappointment. "I hope so."

"There are breakthroughs every day. Just recently, a man awoke from a coma after nineteen years. It happens."

"Da-aad, I'm hungry." A hand tugs at his sleeve.

"In a minute, son," he soothes, looking down into Will's blue eyes. They are so like his mother's.

Naanji places a comforting hand on Mulder's shoulder. "Get some rest. We'll take good care of her." The night nurse enters and begins her routine. It's time to go.

Father and son move with silence down the corridor. Mulder presses the button for the elevator, then glances back towards the room where his wife lay in repose. The doctor is speaking with the nurse about something on Scully's chart.

The elevator doors open and Will rushes in, eager as always to be the one who presses the button marked 'Lobby.' The doors slide closed. Red digital numbers glow in their display, noting their descent. Will watches with a fascination found only in children while he scratches at a bug bite on his arm with earnestness. Before reaching bottom, he turns his head and looks up at Mulder.

"Can we get hamburgers tonight?"

"Sure."

"With fries?"

"Whatever you want, son."

At that, Will does a little jig accompanied by a vehement, "Yess!" then returns his attention to the readout above the door. Mulder sighs to himself, but he's relieved at the boy's good spirits. The quiet time spent with his mother is already being cataloged into the protected place of his son's young heart. His own is long past such innocence.

Beside the car, Mulder looks up to note the window of the room where he knows she rests. Tomorrow he'll bring some shears and trim her hair. Making certain his son is buckled in the back seat, he takes them out of the hospital lot and into evening traffic. The drab afternoon is growing lighter as clouds give way to open patches of sky. Mulder is unaware.

They get their take-out dinner and head home. There, Will devours two cheeseburgers, a large bag of fries and a full-sized chocolate milkshake. His appetite is growing daily, as is he. He's funny and smart and awkward as all get-out. His mother would have doted on him.

Mulder feeds the fish and watches television news. Will does homework at the kitchen table and Mulder reviews it. They study history together. Will takes a shower and gets ready for bed. Mulder stops by his room and finds him sitting atop the blanket, the one he kept on his sofa when he lived in Virginia - a lifetime ago. He sits at the bottom of the bed.

"You okay, buddy?"

"I guess." The room is dark but for the light that spills across the covers from the hallway. Together, they sit without words while Mulder waits for Will to decide if he wants to share.

"Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"Kai says I can't go to Shiprock for the fair. He says I'm not Dineh."

"Does he?"

"And I _know_ the dances, Dad. I know the prayers, too - better than most."

"I know, Will. It's just too risky."

"It's not fair! I can't go _anywhere_."

"You will. One day."

"Can't I just go along? I can stay with Eric the whole time."

Mulder weighs the risk of William being noticed against his son's need to grow up. Albert Hosteen's nephew, Eric, has been there for them from the beginning. He would never endanger the boy. "We'll see. I'll talk to Eric about it."

"Good." Will's pleasure is evident.

"I _said_ we'll see."

A pause, then, "Dad?"

"Yeah."

"Do you think it's true? What Dr. Naanji said?" He pronounces the name with greater accuracy than Mulder ever has.

The man's brow wrinkles, trying to discern which particular piece of information has been noted for future reference. He's always been honest with the boy, but he isn't sure he wants to deal with questions about MRI's right now. "Will-" he begins.

"I think she does know when we're there," the boy says with soft certainty. Mulder nods his agreement, then stands.

"Sleep now," he tells the boy before bending to ruffle his hair and kiss his forehead.

He's at the door when he hears, "Dad?"

"Yes, son."

"I hope she wakes up soon."

"Me, too."

"'Night, Dad. I love you."

"Love you, too, buddy."

Mulder closes the door and wanders out to the backyard. The sky has cleared and the stars are out, painting the heavens with milky light. His thoughts, as always, return to Scully. "Now that lilacs are in bloom/She has a bowl of lilacs in her room." Portrait of a Lady. Yes. Why Eliot? Why not? The wasteland existed, especially in his own broken heart. He imagines his lady in her lonely bed, knowing his will be just as solitary.

So much technology, so little they can do. He wonders if she knows where she is. He wonders if he will ever hear her voice again. He wonders what goes through her mind in the long, unspeakable hours of unconsciousness. He wonders if she dreams and what they are about.

Most of all, he wonders if she can smell the lilacs.

END - The Elusive Scent of Lilacs


End file.
